The day of the meteor festival dawned bright and crisp, and the village transformed with it. Silk ribbons in shades of gold, silver, and deep blue fluttered from rooftops, woven into fences, strung along poles, and tied to lanterns. The air was filled with the smell of grilled meat, honeyed nuts, and sticky rice sweets pressed into flower shapes. The gentle tolling of ceremonial bells echoed from the small village shrine, while soft music played from hand drums and stringed instruments that villagers strummed as they sat outside their homes.
When Amukelo and Pao stepped out from their room at the old man's house, they paused just outside the door to take in the scene—and each other. Amukelo straightened the collar of his black shirt and adjusted the deep blue jacket that shimmered subtly in the sunlight. The suit fit him well, almost too well.
Pao stepped out beside him, her light blue dress flowing like water around her legs. Her sleeves hung just past her wrists, delicate patterns swirling in the fabric, and her hair was done in a simple twist, with a small ornament like a falling star tucked in behind her ear.
For a moment they just looked at each other.
"You look…" Amukelo started, then paused, awkwardly glancing away as if realizing the words sounded too intense.
"I know," Pao said softly, with a warm smile. "You too."
Then came Bral's voice.
"You two look like some nobles. That's not fair." His eye twitched visibly. He looked down at his basic travel tunic and rough leather trousers, then back up at them. "We look like bodyguards for a noble wedding."
Amukelo didn't bother hiding his grin. "Well, I was forced to buy it, if you remember."
Idin crossed his arms. "You didn't even pay for it. You're lucky I have an eye for fit or you'd look like a potato sack with buttons."
Amukelo gave a dry shrug. "Still—if I have it, might as well wear it."
Pao chimed in with a sweet smile. "Besides, don't we stand out of everyone?"
Bral groaned and dragged a hand down his face. "That's the problem. You do. It's disgusting."
"Stop whining," Bao said, brushing her braid behind her shoulder. "We're here for the festival. Try not to look like a sulking horse."
Bral turned to her in exaggerated betrayal. "You too?! You're against me now?"
But she was already walking ahead with a smug flick of her braid.
The group strolled into the heart of the village, and the change from just a few days ago was striking. Nearly every villager wore soft-toned robes that wrapped around the waist and flowed down to the ankle, belted with cloth sashes tied in simple knots. Children ran by with paper lanterns shaped like birds and moons, and merchants had converted their stalls into festival booths selling sweets, trinkets, and sky-themed crafts. Many wore masks—delicate things shaped like foxes, stars, or spirits—with intricate designs painted in soft metallic shades.
It felt like walking into a dream—one woven from tradition, community, and quiet joy.
Idin's eyes lit up almost immediately. He didn't speak for a full minute, just looked around slowly, taking in the way the robes were sewn, how the patterns accented motion, and the way the designs managed to be festive yet elegant. His gaze followed the way villagers moved, how the sleeves swayed like sails in the breeze, and how each sash had its own flourish—some tied high and narrow, others wide with small hanging ornaments.
"These are…" he murmured, mostly to himself. "This is amazing…"
Amukelo noticed the glint in his eyes and raised an eyebrow. "Are you okay?"
Idin didn't hear him. He was already muttering to himself. "If I could study the stitching here… the balance between function and form… and that material—how does it hold shape while still flowing like that? And if I adapted this design with modern cuts…"
He trailed off into a quiet, delighted laugh that was honestly a little disturbing. He clasped his hands behind his back like a scholar deep in thought and whispered, "Father won't know what hit him…"
Amukelo leaned slightly toward Bral and asked under his breath, "What's wrong with him?"
Bral didn't even look over. "Professional deviation," he said flatly.
"Is that even a thing?"
"It is for him."
They continued walking, Idin stopping every few steps to sketch ideas into a small notebook he'd pulled from somewhere in his robes. Bao eventually had to grab his sleeve to stop him from walking directly into a pole.
"I am trying to admire the culture," he protested, but Bao gave him a look that said not at the cost of your face.
Meanwhile, the villagers smiled as they passed, nodding politely or waving. Some pointed at Amukelo and Pao, clearly impressed by their elegant outfits, while others seemed just amused by the obvious blend of noble fashion and the simple traditions of the village festival.
Pao leaned toward Amukelo and whispered, "You think we stand out too much?"
"Probably," Amukelo said. "But it's too late now. We're the talk of the town."
She gave a small laugh. "Good. Let them talk."
They passed by booths with glowing paper lanterns shaped like falling stars and dragons, then by another where a woman painted small wishes onto wooden plaques. Children danced around them, trailing ribbons and laughing as the music picked up tempo near the village square.
Then someone handed Amukelo and Pao a small pair of paper fans painted with stars and wind patterns. A village woman bowed slightly and said, "A gift for those who shine bright today."
Amukelo blinked, then bowed in return with a muttered thank you. Pao twirled her fan with a grin.
Behind them, Bral muttered, "Stars? I feel like I'm being outshined by a stage act."
"I am tempted to find a robe now," Bao said, glancing around. "Something to blend in."
Bral grumbled, "If I see one more person smile at him like he's royalty, I'm gonna kick him."
As they were walking through the streets, Bral ordered food for all of them, handing each person a stick loaded with grapes, berries, and apple slices soaked in honey and lightly sprinkled with crushed nuts. For himself, he opted for the chocolate-glazed version, where bananas and orange segments were dipped and hardened in glossy, dark sweetness.
Bral took a bite and chewed with a pleased hum. "Mmm… that's really good," he said, nodding approvingly as if surprised a village could produce such flavors.
Bao nibbled her skewer delicately and smiled. "Yeah… They've definitely lived in a different culture. You can feel it in the way they flavor things. Not everything's about spice or salt here—there's a subtlety to it."
"I can't wait to explore more of the west side of Elandria," Bral added, casting a glance at the surrounding booths. "If it's anything like this, we've been missing out."
They walked a little further, the crowd thickening around them but never overwhelming. The people were cheerful, moving at an easy pace, enjoying the rare celestial event on the horizon. Some villagers sat on woven mats near their homes, playing flutes or telling stories to small groups of fascinated listeners.
As the group moved along, they passed a small house near the edge of the main road. It was unassuming, with a slanted wooden roof and strings of lanterns hung across its narrow front. Outside sat an elderly man with deep lines carved into his face and a long, gray beard. He puffed gently on a curved pipe, observing the festival with a quiet, contented smile. Just beside him, sewing tools and bolts of patterned fabric rested neatly atop a long, low worktable.
Idin's eyes widened the second he saw the fabrics. The clean stitch lines, the harmony of color, the balance of form and function—all of it seemed to call to him like a sacred art. Without a second thought, he rushed up to the old man.
"Hey! Old man!" he said, eyes practically glowing. "Are you the one responsible for making all these clothes?"
The rest of the group came to an awkward halt a few paces back. Bral pinched the bridge of his nose. "What is he doing to this poor man…"
The old man squinted at Idin through the haze of his pipe smoke. "And if yes, then what?" he asked, voice hoarse but sharp with experience.
Idin dropped to one knee as if proposing to royalty. "Then I beg you, teach me! Your work—it's masterful. I've never seen anything like it in my life! This isn't fashion. This is… legacy. Art. Truth!"
Behind them, Bao groaned. "We've lost him. That's it. He's gone."
Amukelo scratched the back of his neck and muttered, "He's really kneeling. Like, actually kneeling…"
The old man blinked a few times in mild confusion, then slowly lowered his pipe. "You've got no tact, young man. I thought you were gonna march up here to tell me I've done something wrong." But then he chuckled softly. "Yet here you are, falling over yourself with praise. I admit… you've caught me off guard."
"I mean every word," Idin said earnestly. "I come from a tailor's family. My father taught me the needle before I could write. But I've never seen stitching this tight with this kind of movement in the fabric. And the color theory, sir—just the way you layer subtle tones—it's… masterful."
The old man raised a bushy brow. "You sew?"
Idin straightened, trying not to look too smug. "It's my family's profession, sir."
The old man glanced over Idin's shoulder at Pao and Amukelo. "So I suppose you're the one responsible for that blue dress and that tailored jacket?"
"No, they are not my work," Idin said, brushing a bit of dust from his tunic proudly. " But I could do even better than these."
The old man puffed once more on his pipe and clapped his hands together. "In that case… maybe I'll give you the secret."
Idin nearly toppled backward. "Really!? Why?"
The old man leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "I'm getting old, and there is no one interested in this craft in this village. I wouldn't want this art to die with me."
Then the old man raised his finger. "But only if you can show me you're worth the knowledge. Words are easy. I want to see your work."
"My work?"
"Yes," the old man said, slowly rising from his chair with effort. "You'll come inside. I'll give you fabric, and you'll make one robe in our village style. If it's good, I'll tell you what you want to know."
Idin's eyes gleamed like a child at a festival. He spun back to the group and waved. "Don't wait for me. I'll be back before the meteor shower. I need to know what this is all about."
Bral held out a hand, exasperated. "You can't just abandon us to—" But it was too late. The old man waved him off and shuffled into the house, with Idin eagerly on his heels.
Bral threw up his arms. "He's been taken. We've actually lost him."
Bao folded her arms. "I warned you. Sewing is his second religion."
Amukelo smiled faintly, watching the door close behind the two. "He's passionate. I don't blame him."